Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Oh, Timothy Henman. How I miss every year being 'your' year. Before watching you violently fail in the quarter finals by losing to the 22377th seed who only had one arm and was never heard of again.

It is that time of year. The only time most people watch tennis. It is Wimbledon fortnight.

I should hate everything about Wimbledon. It is posh, elitist and ridiculously traditional.

But I fucking love it.

I love the fact that for a few hours you will be rooting for some Eastern European you've never heard of [and who inevitably crashes and burns in the next round] to beat one of the big names.

Oh, and look at the BBC studio! All the big names are there. There's National Treasure John McEnroe, Tiger Tim Henman, Boris Becker is in the broom cupboard and Pete Sampras is swinging on his tyre. All the gang ...

What Wimbledon actually means, is a viable excuse for perving at Marat Safin. Something me and my mum do on an annual basis.

Marat Safin = HoTttTTtttT11!!!11!!!1!!!

And insane.

"This tournament is a joke. Grass is for cows. I'm never coming back here."

And the fact that it is Wimbledon means that it will pour with rain for 2 weeks.

Wimbledon really is the best of British. It is eating strawberries and cream in the drizzle whilst wearing a waterproof jacket and beige pants and participating in the world's most socially awkward Mexican wave.

So put on your monogrammed Roger Federer blazer, put your hands in the air, sing along with Cliff Richard and YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

"No, I am not flagrantly homosexual. How very dare you!"

Game, set and match.

*At work yesterday, I spoke to a Mr Manhood. And laughed down the phone at him. Oops. I couldn't help myself. And the unthinkable nearly happened. I almost went into a bookshop and failed to buy something. Normal service was resumed though. I started my read-one-book-a-week crusade today. I am easing myself in with a Nicholas Sparks schmalzfest War And Peace. I will let you know how it goes and how badly I will fail*